Smudges
by duffie83
Summary: A philosophical Clarice encounters life's inevitability.


_**Disclaimer: The characters Clarice Starling and Dr. Hannibal Lecter were created by Thomas Harris. They are used without permission, but in the spirit of admiration and respect. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit was made.**_

_**For the sake of this little fiction, lets pretend Mitch Albom's **__**The Five People You Meet in Heaven **__**was published about 20 years earlier.**_

_**Thank you Major Bachman, for your kindness in beta-ing. **_

"Smudges"

"All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair."

Mitch Albom The Five People You Meet in Heaven

One of Clarice Starling's undergrad psych professors had shared this quote during lecture. Read in passing without proper consideration, at least in Starling's estimation, it was the piece of knowledge imparted by the otherwise forgettable teacher that remained with her. Even now, so many years later, it haunted her and the implications of it would occasionally rise to the forefront of her mind. She was not a mother. Hannibal would undoubtedly have provided her with children if she'd expressed the desire, but it had seemed selfish, considering their lifestyle. And she had been happy, with just him, just the two of them. She was happy even now…in the early autumn of her life and the late winter of his.

There were no nieces or nephews either, no children of friends. These past fifteen years had been spent in a peaceful, cultured existence. Aside from two precautionary relocations, they had simply enjoyed _being_. Hannibal's urges mostly at rest, Clarice's deadly training unneeded, the quote still resonated with her. She had spent several years in training for, and several more working in a career field largely necessary because of irreparable individuals. People broken as children, turned violent dangerous adults. Jame Gumb came to mind, what person might he have been if only handled with some ounce of love and care? Clarice, however, thought the quote should be further developed. Often it isn't just parents that cause damage, it's life's events and circumstances. Surely the surface of Hannibal's soul ran with deep crevices inflicted by early experiences, among other events not just the loss of a baby sister but _how_ it had occurred. She was quite familiar with her own fissures, chief among them the death of her father…

Hannibal had once described her as a deep roller, and it was true. But she was also a survivor, and it just didn't do dwelling on the negative for an extended period of time. In her mind the essence of the quote had evolved more, to something of its inverse that went beyond youth into adulthood. Perhaps people were also canvases. Their interactions with others leaving bright and colorful fingerprints, proof of connection and love. Much like a child's finger painting proudly displayed on a refrigerator.

_Hannibal holding her closely to his body, elegantly twirling her around their balcony, illuminated by the emerging night sky…smudge, a fingerprint in a red orange to mirror the setting sun and their awakening passion. _

_Reclining on a beach, the sound of crashing waves. His head in her lap, she enjoyed the contrast of one of her hands running through his silky hair while the other idly went back and forth through the gritty sand…smudge, an imprint in an aquamarine the exact color of the ocean. _

Today, she knew, her soul would receive its last touch from him. They'd both known for months that this time his illness was different. He was unable to get up from the bed, and his nurse had to catheterize him. The little indignities of infirmity. He'd slept for most of the last few days, but when awake his gaze was as piercing as ever. Her Hannibal, his body might fail him, but never his mind. He spoke to her with his soothing voice, and she savored its siblance. He'd attempted to prepare her by explaining the process, hoping the knowledge would give her some sense of control and by extension comfort.

It came down to this, even for Hannibal Lecter. If a person is lucky enough to be in a soft bed surrounded by family, it always boils down to those three words. Love and connection, ultimately, the only things that matter. Yet, even now, he didn't say the words. It wasn't his style, never had been. But she felt it and knew it, it was her truth, her religion. He loved her. Instead, as their gazes met for the last time and his heavily veined hand held hers, he whispered, "Thank you."

She understood and felt the painful burning in her throat, but no tears. She raised his hand to her lips, kissed his palm while their eyes were still locked, and said, "I love you." A small smile from him, the final pinpoints of light in his maroon eyes, then they closed.

A while later Cheyne-Stokes breathing had begun. Rapid breaths, then long moments passing before another was drawn. He'd told her about this, soon…very soon. Then a final breath and no more.

Smudge…a deep violet, the color of grief nearly the shade of a long ago eggplant. As piercing and intense as the heartache was, she felt an even stronger sense of gladness that she'd had him.

What beautiful artwork they'd made, a kaleidoscope of colors.


End file.
